


Clean Hands

by VirgoGod



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clean Hands, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), F/M, Hands, Muggle London, Romance, Wizarding World (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25216576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VirgoGod/pseuds/VirgoGod
Summary: Draco has a habit of washing his hands. But isn't that something only muggles do? Hermione's determined to find out.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 31





	Clean Hands

Hermione knew Draco’s hands were always clean because he had a habit of washing them. You’d think with how mischievous he was as a teenager, and the Pureblood society habits he was still learning to grow out of would make him one careless, germ-flinging bastard. It was actually quite the opposite. He washed his hands almost obsessively.

Hermione had first noticed the peculiar habit while they were still at Hogwarts. Out of habit, she and a few other muggle-born students would clean their hands before meals. There were a few times when she noticed Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle trailing behind her and a group headed to the washrooms. Sometimes they would come back out at the same time and Draco would be shaking the water from his hands or drying them on the back of Crabbe’s cloak. She only thought about how annoying and vile he was and didn’t think much about the event as a whole. 

When they took a potions class together, she began to notice how fidgety Draco would get around that time. She could even catch him muttering to himself and rubbing his hands together inconspicuously. Once the curiosity became too much, she confronted him about it. Instead of answering her question he had kissed her.

That had made her forget about it for a while. She avoided him as stealthily as she could until it was time to leave Hogwarts. Years later, she was working for the ministry of magic hoping to siphon out the poisonous effect Tom Riddle's presence had. Unfortunately, things hadn’t worked out with Ron and with their history it was too awkward to stay in the same world as him. So she moved to muggle London. She was quite enjoying the bustling, rainy city. Being inconspicuous on her way to work was a chore, but the commute was a sight for sore eyes. Hermione’s life was starting to arrange itself neatly and things were peaceful.

Then Draco showed up. Out of nowhere, he just appeared and seemed to be really persistent about Hermione. He began to pop up everywhere she went and often left notes or gifts at her office. Draco was insufferable. Not to mention how awkward it was to have the boy who’d relentlessly bullied her in their youth and almost gotten her killed on multiple occasions suddenly seeking her attention. But nevertheless he had charmed her, shown her a sweet and suffering man who was deeply remorseful. She fell in love with him. Draco, not Malfoy. 

Now, Hermione watched from her bed as he washed his hands in the sink. Draco had just arrived at her flat in muggle London. He’d knocked curtly at the door, placed a neat kiss on her lips, slipped easily from his shoes, and lined them up on the rack. Then she led him to her room where he’d slipped away to the loo. As he usually did. She’d been mindful of the pattern, and this time she thought she had seen him do it enough times to voice her curiosity. She snuck behind him and wound her arms around his waist from behind. Her head lay on his spine, feeling his shoulders shift with the movement of his hands.

“What are you doing?”

His cheeks became red despite how rigid his posture and expression were, “Shouldn’t you know?”

“Well of course,” Hermione moved to lean against the worktop next to him so she could see his face, “but that’s exactly why I’m asking. Since when do wizards wash their hands? Purebloods at that.” 

They both stared down at his nimble, pale hands as he massaged sudsy bubbles into his palms. His blue veins and friction-reddened skin just barely contrasted against the white soap. Draco explained while he scrubbed at his knuckles. The purebloods obsession with maintaining purity went as far as extremely rigid practices of cleanliness. Especially his mother’s side of the family. As a child, Draco bathed five times a day. He was often ill because of it. Only when he attended Hogwarts was he permitted to focus more on his studies. However, he never got rid of the hand washing habit.

“But why would purebloods want to do something that so closely resembles a muggle practice?”

“Well, it separates purebloods from the half-bloods who use magic. And we do it often enough that it’s distinctive from muggle-borns. It’s really not widely practiced, just another boost to status for obsessive families like my mother’s.” Draco griped

“Why do you still do it?” Hermione asked.

“Force of hand,” he blinked, “I mean habit.”

Hermione noticed his fumbling with the soap became more aggressive. She called his name softly, “Draco?”

She could tell he wasn’t present anymore, probably trapped in some horrid memory.

“Draco,” she tried again, firmer this time and placing her warm, brown hands over his, “You’re going to rub them raw.”

Hermione gently cupped cool water over his hands with her own and turned off the tap when the soap was gone. She grabbed a flannel and delicately pat-dryed the water droplets away.

“Your hands are all red and pruned now,” she smoothed a dollop of shea over his hands.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered and sniffed his palm, “Smells like you.”

Her stomach fluttered, “You’re welcome,” and then she straightened, “What were you thinking about just then?”

Draco sighed, “You sure ask a lot of questions, Granger.”

“Well, curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought it back,” she retorted smartly, stepping into his chest.

Draco peered down at her, ever intrigued by her. 

“I was just thinking about if I’d never kissed you,” he ran his smooth flat thumb over her hanging, cherry red stained lips, the remnants of her daytime lipstick, “I would have never had the strength to leave the Death Eaters.”

Hermione immediately thought about the stretch of flesh on Draco’s left arm that once had the inky scrawling of the dark mark. She also remembered his screams and cries in excruciating pain when she convinced Harry to help her remove it. That thought was painful and she had to smooth the hair on his head to soothe herself, though she told herself the caring touch was for Draco’s sake. “That’s not mine to have. It took your own strength.”

“No listen, Hermione,” he cupped her face with both hands, “The purebloods, the death eaters, were so consumed by order and tradition. And we were supposed to be prepared to die for...him. After the way my childhood went, I didn’t know what I wanted. But when I kissed you, I knew I didn’t want to serve him anymore because what I wanted...what I wanted was to kiss you again.”

He kissed her, “And again.”

And again.

And again.

She let his mouth consume hers and he ate from her lips like he was starving. He gripped her as if she would fly away. Too tightly, though, because a sudden pain shot up his wrist. He exclaimed and tried to shake it out.

“Episkey,” He and Hermione both said at the same time, perfectly articulated. The pain in his hand subsided.

“Come on, maybe you should lie down,” Hermione pulled him back to bed. She helped him undress down to an undershirt and pants. They climbed into bed shoulder to shoulder. Draco stretched his hands up in front of them and flexed his fingers.

“I think I have some murtlap essence if the spell didn’t work.” she offered, “If not I could probably whip up a batch. I have some tentacles to spare.”

“It’s fine,” Draco interrupted, still focusing hard on his hands, “Maybe the half-bloods have got it figured out.”

Hermione then muttered admittingly, “I like that you wash your hands.”

He peeked at her now over his shoulder, arms still raised.

She raised hers too. She refused to meet his eyes as she tangled their fingers together. “Without the constant washing, of course. It’s something we have in common.”

“Are you saying you want to wash your hands with me?” Draco teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes, smirking.

“I’m just saying that I like that it’s something we both do, especially since you spent so many years pointing out everything that was different about us,” Hermione finished pointedly and crossed her arms over her chest. Draco groaned and massaged the heel of his palm into his forehead. He chuckled painfully.

He pulled her into an embrace, “Am I making up for it at least?”

Hermione shrugged playfully, “gradually.”

Draco’s smile was weak. He felt terrible for all the things he did while loyal to his family and the death eaters. Especially what he did to Hermione and the other Muggle-borns at Hogwarts. He wasn’t confident that he was making up for anything, but as long Hermione would have him he would stay.

“Just don’t stop washing your hands _completely_ , ok?” 

Hermione’s voice brought his attention back to her sparkling brown eyes. They pierced into him with a glint of hopefulness, and something like resilience at the ready too, just in case. He’d done that to her. And agreeing to do this with her would reassure her that she’d made the right choice trusting him.

“Ok.” He finally replied and Hermione sighed gently in relief, closing her eyes and allowing the weight of his cool and smooth hand to come to rest on her cheek. She lay kisses on the prints of each finger and along the lines of his palm. Draco, tempted, pressed his thumb to the seam of her lips until she'd completely enveloped the finger. Her mutual acceptance along with her twisting tongue set him ablaze. "I don't deserve you." "I know."

Hermione flipped over and pressed her back into his chest. They fell asleep in each other's arms and awoke the next morning to wash their hands together.


End file.
